Alabaster shines in stripes the sunbath on the window's pane, mired glass made a gleaming all bemuddled, casting rayshine in the open spaces rent with fury by the aching heat. Treetops dance like silver lashes set to twirling in the empty breeze.

Scattered along the edge pass rows of layered beauty like tempests in the distance, all iron and blood and sweat and the rhythm of the place, it's heart abeat, lymphomic and resin-like, the city.

Out past the farthest reaches of the furthest sight lie streams in reckless patterns, flowing northward and to the sky and out beyond, in kin with the flock of aimless man, his bootstraps reluctant narrow drag squalid kneeling gaitless down the path to sightless heaven.

And further out lies the heart acradle, the image and the silence, the portrait of the fire, ablaze and all akindle as it's fingers lash to beating reckless mighty a pattering of age and a flushing out of time. The sky burns mild as dawn rears her face caustic, as skyward lean the earthbound trees, as laughing run the living from the world within their doors. The city angelic rises dawnly from it's company in night, and all along the shorelines and the skylines and the avenues and boulevards lined with yellowed orbs all the way to harbor, out past the sky and back again, come screaming for the empty joys a pride of blushing faces to gather in their calling and to wait away their joyless fates. All music seems to scream the city lusty in the night like poetry or jazz, filthy and unkempt, heartless not and joyless un-, restless not but for the pressing in of day.

A foot steps out from the door of a car and onto the paved ground, scattering like hurricanes a thousand mites of dust and cud, as weightless comes the knowing that one has just come home.